


Worthy Of Everything

by WickedNerdAngel



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry/Worried Jensen, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bossy Bottom Misha, Bottom Misha, Brief Collins Family, Brief Vicki, Cockles, Cursing in Italian, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Jib9, Love, M/M, Rome - Freeform, Snarky Misha, after sex fluff, snarky Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 01:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14683662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedNerdAngel/pseuds/WickedNerdAngel
Summary: “But you are worthy, Misha, Christ.” Jensen huffs through his nose, dropping his head to his chest, the movement catching Misha's attention. He glances at the man next to him, taking in his severely clenched jaw, but the words won't stop, as pissed as their making Jensen.





	Worthy Of Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to my angst and pain! I don't know about y'all, but I feel like Misha (along with Jared) had a rough Saturday at Jib this year, and it gave me all the feels. 
> 
> Basically, Misha's upset, and Jensen just wants his boyfriend to know he's loved beyond measure. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. It all comes from my feeble, feely sponge between my ears. No disrespect intended to any of the characters depicted or mentioned. 
> 
> Enjoy! (Kudos and comments alwayyyyys welcome ;-) )

Worthy of Everything

By

WickedNerdAngel

 

The sky is smiling at you today.

Because you are worthy of its warmth 

from the sun.

You are worthy of it's tears known as rain.

You are worthy of the blue and gray in its eyes

You are worthy. 

***

 

The lights in the green room are blinding. At least that's the way they're perceived by him. The dull, nagging stress headache that doesn't seem to want to expunge itself from the grip it holds on him isn't helping, so he presses irritated fingers against his temples, circling them to relieve the slightest bit of pressure. His tired, cobalt eyes drift closed; his mind releasing images, rewinding and fast forwarding over the last two panels - well, one and a  _ half _ , actually - against his will. Sometimes he loves his mind, and sometimes he hates his mind with his very soul. 

At this moment, it seems to be the latter.

He sees snippets of faces from the crowd. Bright, toothy smiles of elation; small, rectangular phones suspended in mid-air, snapping photos or videos, probably both; bodies, linear, poised and ready to ask what's on their minds; one or two, possibly three unimpressed faces, seemingly remissed that he's taken the stage with the two men before him.

He  _ should _ remember the faces showing love, support, but he doesn't, and that's why he hates his mind right now. It's the faces set in stony silence, eyes rolled in disappointment, scowls of disapproval that he remembers like a branding iron taken to his brain.

Misha sighs. He scrubs his palms over his face in frustration and blinks, squinting at the intrusive brightness.  _ Why do they call it a green room, anyway,  _ he thinks benightedly - he knows why -  _ when it's, quite frankly, gold? The only things green in this room are the lettuce wraps people have blatantly abandoned for chips and swaths of Italian candy.  _ He glares at the gold leafed trim of the doors and chair rail, the lighter color of the painted walls, and suddenly, everything's too fucking  _ gold. _

He leans back against the plush couch on which he sits and scrunches up his nose. Thinking. Enough of this self-deprecating bullshit. It's only been a few minutes since he finished his solo panel, and although he needed some time alone afterward, and was infinitely grateful no one was occupying the room when he got here, he needs to  _ do _ something.

Tweet from the Gish account and watch people scramble? That could be fun. Tweet something with snark and wit about Donald Trump’s mundane idiocy? Possibly. He doesn't know, honestly, and he's not feeling much of it right now. A minute or two flows by until it dawns on him finally, what to channel this  _ whatever it is _ he's feeling into... Wayward. He's passionate about supporting his girls, so that's exactly what he's going to do.

Just as he clicks on the Twitter app and is putting together his thoughts on the matter, he hears voices approaching. Two to be exact and, although they're muffled, he'd know them anywhere.

“Look, man, I know you wanna do all this, but for God's sake, take some time.  _ Look  _ at you.” Jensen's voice is riddled with concern as he pushed the door open, and Jared...well, he's looking worse for wear.

“Hey, Mish,” Jared says, subdued.

“Hey, Jar,” Misha replies, putting his phone in his pocket as he stands to greet his friends.

“Misha,” Jensen starts, pinching the bridge of his nose, then throwing his hand in Jared's direction. “Would you tell him to take some fucking chill time, please? He feels like shit, he's loaded with allergy medicine -which is making him loopy as fuck - and he  _ needs _ a  _ break.” _ He's now throwing a pleading glare at his under-the-weather best friend.

Misha takes a deep stuttering breath as he approaches them. It's not lost on him how Jensen's eyes have shifted to now stare dubiously at  _ him. _ “Jared,” he chides softly, reaching up to place a hand on the taller man's shoulder, “take a break, dude. You need one.” With that, he brushes past the both of them, heading towards the door.

“Well that was... anticlimactic,” Jensen mumbles, “hey!” He strides after Misha just as the man's hand goes for the door handle, hooking his own in the crook of Misha's elbow and pulls a little. “What's...are you okay?” His voice gives away that he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt Misha is not okay, but hey...it's still a question, and Misha answers it.

“I'm...fine.” He sighs.

Jensen looks him up and down once. “Not buying it. You're  _ not _ fine.” He leans into Misha's personal space, close enough to obscure Misha's vision with freckles and green irises, and the world melts away. “Talk to me, man,” Jensen whispers.

Misha takes the younger man's hand off his arm as gently as he can, squeezing it before letting it go. “I'm just tired, Jens,” he says, his voice low, and smiles, a halo of sadness surrounding it. “I'm gonna go up to my room for a minute and rest.”

Jensen's hand remains suspended in mid air for a moment, then drops to his side. “Okay,” he nods, but his green eyes are pleading, suddenly a little watery and Misha hates it. He loathes that his friend can see right through him, through his bullshit and wants to help, but most of all, Misha hates that he can't let him. Not right now, anyway.

Misha feels his face heat up, his chest tighten, and his eyes well... and he can't do this anymore. He turns abruptly and shoves his way through the door, hoping to get to the elevator  _ and _ his room before he breaks down.

Mission 'stave the tears’ is successful and, as he plops himself on his bed, he crushes his palms into his eye sockets.  _ The ones you keep thinking of don't matter. They don't fucking matter, Dmitri, _ he repeats to himself. Instead of dwelling, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. The tweeting will have to wait for later. Instead, he takes a page from his answer to a question at his panel, pulls up Vicki's number on FaceTime, and hits 'send.’

Her face appears on the screen, a smile to light the entirety of Europe, and when he hears Maison singing loudly in the background, he loses it. Tears roll freely down his cheeks and, for some  _ godforsaken  _ reason, he can't stop them. Vicki's face falls immediately. He can blurrily see the scenery change behind her as she moves to a more private room and closes the door behind her.

“Misha? Baby, what's wrong?” Her voice is filled with alarm, concern, pain, and  _ fuck _ , he didn't mean for this to happen. 

“I just…” he coughs, choking a little, then laughs at himself humorlessly. “Remember those tattoos we talked about?”

“Yes?” It comes out as a question, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Let's get those when I get back, okay?” His face scrunches again as he tries and fails miserably to hold off more tears.

_ "Okay,” _ she answers, “of course we can, but baby, please...what's going on?”

Misha takes a shuddering breath. “I'm just, I miss you guys so much. It's just a rough day, Vick, that's all. I needed to see you and hear your voice.”

“We miss you too, honey,” she says, smiling, “but we're okay. Let's get the tattoos soon. I’ll even hold your hand.”

“Fuck you,” he laughs, his mood already lifting.

“Where's Jensen?” she asks, knowingly.

Misha sighs, a twinge of guilt biting at him. “I left him in the green room with Jared. That's a whole other story.”

“Let him in, Dmitri,” she replies, raising an eyebrow.  _ Fucking Christ, her intuition is scarily accurate. _

“I will,” he sobers. “Put the kids on real quick?”

“Of course, ya big sap,” she winks, then continues, “I love your adorably sensitive ass, you know that, right?” Misha nods, feeling that lump in his throat threaten to strangle him again, but he can't help but laugh as his beloved turns her head and yells, “come here, heathens! Dad's on FaceTime!”

He sucks it up enough to put on a good face for his kids, but as soon as the call ends, he's right back where he started. He takes a minute in the bathroom... splashing water on his face and slathering some hotel lotion on it - probably not the best idea, he's aware - to smooth out the puffiness and stress-wrinkles. He's just about to gather himself and head back out, when he hears the door rattle from a key card being inserted into it. He sighs. Because he knows who it is, and he's not sure he can do this right now. His emotions are teetering on the edge of a precipice, and frankly, he wants to move on...and maybe drink... heavily.

He stands in the short hallway, watching as Jensen emerges into the room, shutting the door quickly behind him.

_ “Shit!” _ the beautiful man lets out a hiss as he turns around. “Fuck, you scared me, Mish.” Misha just shrugs. “Are you... have you been crying? What the  _ hell _ is happening?” Jensen walks straight up to him and, without missing a beat, wraps his arms around him.  It takes Misha a minute to reciprocate, but when he does, it's crushing. Jensen grunts at the weight of his boyfriend against him and feels his entire being submerged in emotions. “You gonna talk to me?” he asks over Misha's shoulder.

Misha pushes away and turns around. The proverbial fog of unspoken words thick around them. He grabs his room key and phone, shoving both in his back pocket, and takes a deep breath. “I don't think that's a good idea, Jens.”

“Why?” Jensen snaps. “Because you think I don't…” he sighs, “because you think I'm oblivious to this shit, Misha? I'm not, I--”

“I never said that. Don't put words in my fucking mouth, Jensen.”

“I'm not, just…” Jensen growls in frustration, clenching his fists. “I miss my family too, y'know? Jared's down there, a fucking mess because of more than one reason, he wears his feelings on his goddamn shoulders, and I'm about to  _ break!” _

“Well, then go attend to him. I'm  _ fine.  _ I'm... better now,” Misha lies.

Jensen throws his hands in the air. “Is this real life?” he asks, speaking to the ceiling.

“As real as it goddamn gets,” Misha deadpans.

“Nah, man, don't. Don't fucking do that. Don't turn this into who I care for  _ more. _ I think you know the answer to that one, Collins.” Jensen's tone is low and severe.

“Fuck. I'm sorry.” Misha buries his face in his hands, scrubbing. “This is why I didn't wanna talk, Jensen. I don't fucking  _ want  _ this!”

“What do you mean,  _ 'you don't want this _ ’?” Jensen yells.

“I don't wanna fight with you, Jens.” There's that goddamn lump again. His breath catches on it. “Shit.” He turns his back to Jensen, scrubbing his fingers through his hair and drops onto the bed. His chest is heaving with contained sobs, and he can't  _ fucking _ stop it. The bed dips beside him suddenly;  warm arms wrapping around him from the side; his face is pulled into Jensen's chest by a large, but gentle hand, and he lets it happen. A traitorous tear escapes, leaking onto Jensen's chest, and Misha holds his breath defiantly because  _ this is fucking ridiculous, and he's tired of crying about shit he shouldn't let get to him. _

“Let me in, you asshole,” Jensen chides softly, but there's no more anger, just desperate concern. He squeezes the dark-haired man even tighter. Misha can barely breathe, but he doesn't care.

“It's not about missing my family,” he mumbles into Jensen's shirt, “not all of it.”

“If you think I don't already know that, you're a fucking idiot,” Jensen replies, huffing in disapproval because he  _ does  _ know. Jensen knows this insufferable, self-deprecating man, often, more than he knows  _ himself  _ for Christ's sake. He pulls Misha's face up with a free hand to meet his, watery blues killing him where he sits, and leans in. He kisses him softly, his mouth moving slow and meticulous, letting his feelings flow through the touch of his lips. “Fuck 'em,” he says on his exhale as he pulls away and looks at the man he'd give his entire soul to - well, half of it, anyway - “fuck all of them. They aren't worth this bullshit. You're  _ better  _ than this. You're  _ better  _ than them.”

Misha just stares at the grass green eyes an inch before his. He bites his lip and shakes his head because he's not. He's  _ not better _ than any of these people.

Jensen's expression screws up into annoyed frustration. Never-ending frustration with this man. “Why is it always like pulling teeth with you? Let me  _ the fuck  _ in, Dmitri,  _ please.” _

Misha's belly stirs with warmth at his birth-given name. He licks his lips, Jensen's eyes drawing downward at the movement. “That's what Vicki said,” he whispers.

“Well, she's right,” Jensen retorts. He pulls back, eyebrows raised to get his point across. Misha's eyes cast down because this is too raw for him. He wants lighthearted and fun; this heaviness is drowning him, but he knows Jensen's not gonna let up, and he knows that's exactly what he needs. “Look at me, Mish,” the younger man continues. “How many times have I judged you? How many times have you told me something and I used it against you? Huh? How many times?”

Misha flicks his gaze up at Jensen's pleading eyes and back down just as quickly. “None,” he simply states.

“Right. None.” Jensen wraps both hands around Misha's head and pulls with force, kissing him again but this time, it's deeper, more consuming. Misha moans softly as Jensen's tongue glides over his own with ease and familiarity. When he breaks away, his chest heaving a little, he pulls back enough for Misha to see the empathetic pain in his eyes. “Please talk to me, man. I'm fucking begging you,  _ fucking _ please.”

Misha notices that subtle break in Jensen's voice, and it kills a piece of him. In no universe, can he stand seeing Jensen this upset over him. He puts his palm on Jensen's cheek, the younger man's eyes fluttering closed as Misha's thumb caresses back and forth rhythmically.

“I'm not better, Jens.” He drops his hand to his lap and turns, facing forward again. Generally speaking, he doesn't like to look at the hurt in Jensen's eyes when he self-loathes out loud. “I'm not stupid enough or egotistical enough to believe I deserve any of what I have.” Jensen remains silent, thankfully, letting Misha speak, but he can feel the man’s body next to him tensing with every word that comes out of his mouth. “I don't know them. I came from nothing, but I at least knew love and family, maybe they didn't. Maybe they've got no support in their lives so they lash out at me because I do.” He takes a breath. “A lot of what they say is true, even if they don't know it.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Jensen mumbles, but Misha ignores it.

“I'm not movie star gorgeous…” he hears Jensen huff in obvious disapproval, but again he ignores. “My accents are ridiculously obtuse and generally make no sense for the content in which I use them…” he sees Jensen's fist clench out of the corner of his eye at that. “I dunno,” he chuckles humorlessly, “people say the sweetest things to me at these things, but I don't feel... I don't feel like I'm worthy of those things.”

“But you  _ are _ worthy, Misha,  _ Christ.”  _ Jensen huffs through his nose, dropping his head to his chest, the movement catching Misha's attention. He glances at the man next to him, taking in his severely clenched jaw, but the words won't stop, as pissed as their making Jensen.

“That's not true. It's just  _ not. _ I appreciate it when they say it. I  _ try _ to live up to it, but I'm  _ not _ a good actor, I'm  _ not _ this amazing person  _ some _ people seem to think I am,” he's rambling now, but the words won't fucking stop, “I'm  _ just _ a fucking person that wants to make this world better, that wants to _ try _ to help. It's  _ kills _ me to see people hurting and unaccepted, and I just…  _ fuck _ … I feel this pressure to make everyone happy--”

“Misha, stop.”

“And I think I do, sometimes, but then I have days like today, where I can  _ see _ the annoyance. I could  _ see  _ the disgust on their faces at my  _ mere-fucking-presence  _ on that stage. I  _ saw _ their eye-rolls at the fact that I had the  _ audacity _ to show my face. That's why I sat so far away,” his voice cracks at that, but he clears his throat.

“Mish,” Jensen's tone sounds a little more desperate, angry.

“I mean, I didn't wanna get  _ booed  _ for sitting so close to you, for fuck's sake, and then I barely made it through my  _ own _ panel without sounding like a blubbering imbecile--”

He gasps suddenly as Jensen fists his shirt and pulls on it violently until they're nose to nose.

“Shut up. Shut the  _ fuck  _ up,” he growls. He presses their foreheads together, his chest heaving with rage and pain. “You're...  _ fuck _ …” he grips tighter and exhales, “you're worthy of  _ everything,  _ Mish. Everything. I dunno how many times I have to  _ goddamn _ tell you this, but I'll say it forever. You deserve the world to be a better place. Hell, you're  _ changing _ the world into a better place. You're the  _ best  _ thing that's ever happened to me, you and Dee. I  _ don't  _ know what I'd do without you, and I... fucking…  _ need _ you to know that. If certain people can't see the fucking beauty that goddamn resonates from your  _ soul _ , then they don't deserve  _ anything _ from you. You understand me?” Misha's silent. “Think about me, Jared, your family, and people that don't even fucking know you, who love you more than anything in this world and  _ fuck _ everybody else.  _ Fuck _ those people today; fuck  _ every... single... one _ of them.”

Misha's overwhelmed. His breaths punch out of his chest, forehead still fuses to Jensen's, caught in his vice grip. He mirrors Jensen, fisting his own hands in the man's shirt, reveling in their mingled breaths, and just... feeling.

“Say something, Mish,” Jensen pleads.

“I'm sorry,” Misha whispers.

“Screw that,” Jensen shakes his head, still attached to maddeningly stubborn man's in front of him, “don't be sorry.”

“I'm…” Misha pauses, “okay.”

Jensen leans in and kisses him again, before he can say something else ridiculous like  _ he's sorry.  _ Misha dives into it; his mouth moving feverishly against Jensen's. He sucks on his plump bottom lip, but pulls back, only to lean in again just as quickly, licking at the top lip, drinking Jensen's moan as he angles his head to go deeper. Their tongues glide together as they both suck and lick, breaths coming faster, headier, fists gripping tighter.

“Jens,” Misha groans on his exhale, “I need you.”

“I'm here, Mish,” is the reply against his mouth.

“No, Jensen,” Misha slides his mouth along the scruff of his beard, to the man's ear. It stings a little against his raw lips, but he welcomes it. “I need you to fuck me.” He licks at the shell of it. “I need you inside me.”

Jensen shivers at both the breath and the words. He pulls back to check his boyfriend's tear-stained face for sincerity, and that's all he sees. “This is... rare.” he raises his eyebrows for certainty. “Are you sure?”

Misha only nods in reply, pleading blue eyes boring into green.

Jensen mirrors the movement. “Okay, of course.” He moves in on Misha's throat, scraping his teeth along goose-bumped skin before soothing it with his lips and tongue. Misha shudders, his hands sliding under Jensen's arms to his back, blunt nails digging into material and flesh. Jensen's lips move with precision over the chords of Misha's neck, up to the bolt of his jaw before capturing his mouth again. Misha sighs into it as both men's nimble fingers work to release the buttons of the other's shirt.

Jensen finishes his task first, as Misha's still sluggish and shaky, pressing his palm to the older man's bare chest. Misha feels it immediately, the calm, the warmth exuding from Jensen's hand into his skin, and kisses him deeper. The younger man whimpers in appreciation. He stands, pulling Misha with him, lips never disconnecting as they slide cotton over shoulders, eager hands exploring the dips and plains of fit torsos, chests and backs.

The rest of their clothes come off in a slow, sinuous dance, discarded in makeshift piles around the bed. Misha whimpers and mewls as Jensen kneads his fingers into quivering flesh, giving special attention to the dips and valleys of the heaving chest before him. He laves his tongue over Misha's nipples, rolling them gently between his teeth until they're taut, little pebbles, and Misha is a begging, whining mess of want.

“Please, Jens,  _ mmmmffffkkk,” _ he mumbles, reaching for hair that's too short to grasping, settling for pressing Jensen's head into him harder.

Jensen smiles against his chest, savoring the fact that he's unraveling the one who's usually unraveling him. He drags his lips up to the crook of Misha's neck and sucks. Misha bucks forward.

“Asshole,” the insufferable man huffs.

“Oh... I'm getting there.” He's at his ear now, breathing into it, feeling Misha shiver.

“Not... fast enough,” Misha gasps as Jensen bites into his earlobe.

Jensen pulls back and grins at him.

_ He's evil, _ Misha's decided.

“Settle down, big guy, you're not in charge right now.”

“Is that right?”

Jensen nods, slow and devious, his mouth curls into a smirk. “That's right.”

Misha stares down his nose and clucks his tongue, just before he spins the unsuspecting man and shoves him on to the bed. Jensen yelps as his body bounces on the mattress, narrowing his eyes at this jackass he loves so much.  _ He wants to play it like this? Fine.  _ Jensen will let him do it... for a little while. He watches as Misha crawls over him, cat-like, predatory, his beautiful erection bobbing slightly as he advances, and his own dick jumps in anticipation.

Jensen scoots himself back as far as he can go, and Misha is quick to follow. He dips down, capturing the Texan's lips, tugging on each one, and licking into his mouth. Jensen growls in response, deep in his throat; he reaches around, palms flat on Misha's backside, and pulls until he's crushed by quivering muscle and flesh. He bucks up into him, the friction unleashing desperate moans from both men as Misha's fingers curl into the top of Jensen's hair, his own neck assaulted by Jensen's feverish lips.

“Fuck,  _ yeah, _ just like that,” the older man groans as skillful hands glide down his back, fingers kneading into the swell of his ass. He's more desperate now. He wants those fingers all over him, inside him. He wants freckled, sun-kissed arms to push and pull him into oblivion. He wants to be filled to the point of explosion, and he wants it  _ now _ .

Jensen's hands slide back up Misha's body, framing his face and pushing back. He's staring, emerald eyes boring into his, expression filled with shit Misha can't handle, and he averts his gaze.

“Mish,” Jensen whispers.

“What?” Misha shifts his eyes back. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“No.”

“You're fucking killing me, Jensen.”

“I know.” He grins.

“Well,  _ what?”  _ He raises his eyebrows, huffing like a petulant child.

“I love you, you indignant shit.”

Misha rolls his eyes, but without malice. “Me too, fucker, now where's the lube?”

“I didn't get it.”

“Why not?” Misha whines.

“Well, I was  _ going _ to get it, but  _ someone _ was a little im-fucking-patient.”

He can't argue with that.

“Ugh.  _ Fine. _ ” Misha pushes himself up and goes to Jensen's bag, rooting around until he finds the small, purple bottle. Jensen's leaning up on his elbows now, taking in the view of Misha's perfectly round ass across the room. A shock of arousal courses through him; he bites his lip to stifle the sounds that want to escape anytime - if he's being honest - the occasion arises to see Misha's naked body.

Before Misha can return, though, Jensen scrambles off the bed. He stands in wait, inching closer until he's almost right on top of the man. Misha yelps in surprise as he turns, nearly crashing into his smug-looking, asshole of a boyfriend.

“Jensen, what the fu--”

His words are smothered by Jensen's mouth moving expertly against his; his tongue seeking entry, which Misha grants immediately, groaning as heat suddenly envelopes him. Jensen snakes his arm around Misha's waist, pinning him against his torso and, with his free hand, deftly snatches the bottle from him, tossing it on the bed.

“I said… you're not…” Jensen croons between kisses, “in charge…  right now.”

_ "Mmmfff,”  _ Misha replies very eloquently. All witty brain function seems to have ceased when Jensen chooses to run that free hand from his balls to the tip of his cock and back down again.  _ “Fuck.” _

Jensen pulls back and smirks, extending the arm not currently imprisoning him toward the bed, and points. Misha's wordlessly follows the movement with shocked eyes. “Hands and knees. Now.” Misha's gaze snaps back to Jensen. He swallows audibly. His mouth falls open in a silent whimper, and he does exactly what he's told.

Jensen takes a brief moment to let his eyes rake over Misha's gorgeous, statuesque form... the muscles in his arms taut, knees - cradled by the mattress - pulled apart just wider than this hips, head bowed between strong shoulder blades; his tanned, well-toned back is arched slightly, ass turned up, waiting. He's presented, poised,  _ beautiful, _ and ready. Jensen rarely gets to see this, and when he does, he quite literally short-circuits. Heat floods his body, blood surges through his veins, pooling in his cock, and it weeps in anticipation.

“Like what you see, tough guy?”

It's at that moment, Jensen realizes  _ something  _ was said out loud... by him. He thinks he's supposed to feel embarrassed at his own blatant cognitive impotence, but Misha's voice sounds wrecked - try as the poor fella might to sound nonchalant - and he's smug.

Oh and by the way...  _ yes, he fucking does. _

Jensen crawls over him, pressing his whole body into Misha's back. He feels the buzzing under Misha's skin, the slight tensing of muscles as his body makes contact and his lips take purchase on the exposed area just north of his spine. Misha sighs in response.

“About fucking time.”

Jensen grinds his cock into the crack of Misha's ass, and the man beneath him gasps. “Calm down, Dmitri, we've got all kinds of time,” he says into Misha's ear.

Misha shivers. “I hate you.”

“I know.” Jensen grins against the shell of it.

“I'm gonna kill you.”

“No you're not.”

_ “Please,”  _ Misha reaches behind him, nails digging into the meat of Jensen's ass. His own cock is dripping and aching with need.

“Please, what, Dmitri?”

Misha growls. “Please... fuck… me... Ackles…” he punches out the words from his heaving chest as Jensen thrusts twice more, “hard. I need to feel you.”

Jensen kisses across his neck again. He reaches his hands under Misha's body and runs his fingers from the man's chest to his groin, wrapping them around the shaft of Misha's cock.

“Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ,” Misha cries. Jensen's other hand grapples for the bottle of lube and he lifts up, abandoning Misha's poor dick to get to the task at hand. He leans back over to plant open-mouth kisses along the man's spine, kneading the flesh on the back of Misha's thigh as he goes. He kisses the swell of the perfectly round ass before him, lathering the fingers of his other hand, then spreading Misha's cheeks wide, opening him. Misha's breaths are coming heavy as Jensen rims puckered flesh with his thumb and dips it inside.

_ “Yes... fuck... more,”  _ Misha demands, dropping to his forearms and digging his forehead into the pillow.

“So bossy,” Jensen chuckles, dipping one, then two, finally three fingers in, curling and twisting, scissoring.

Misha keens; fists clenched in the sheet, eyes screwed shut, body pushing back against Jensen's fingers of its own volition. “Jens,” he gasps, “it's not enough...need you inside me.”

Jensen's happy to oblige. He slides his palm up to length of Misha back, gripping his shoulder tightly as he lines himself up and inches inside. Misha reaches back again, pulling on Jensen's ass with as much strength as he muster to get him fully submerged.

“Hard!” The older man yells.

_ Eager little shit, _ Jensen rolls his eyes, but slams into him until his hips are flush against Misha's beautiful ass. It's hard enough to make the stubborn shithead beneath him have to catch himself before face-planting into the mattress, and Jensen smirks. He pulls back out, almost to the tip and slams back in, again and again, and Misha is writhing, whimpering, meeting him thrust for thrust. Jensen wants to see his face. He wants to watch him unravel, all by his doing, but he knows he'd most likely be choked within an inch of his life if he tried that right now.

Misha's barking orders as he gets what he wants, grabbing at Jensen behind him, blunt nails digging in where he can find flesh,  _ “more... harder...just like that... fuck, don't stop, I need you... Jensen... mmmmfffhhh... I need you.” _

Jensen's already getting close. He feels the buzzing heat spiraling in his belly, spreading through his limbs, making its way to his groin, his thrusts getting more and more erratic.

Misha's stopped talking, his breaths punching out of him too hard and fast for words to form. His thoughts are too loud, though, and he fights them. He just wants his boyfriend to fuck those thoughts away...to keep him from falling over the cliff. He pushes back into Jensen harder, hoping it'll stave the pain, but it doesn't. He  _ wants  _ to be just this side of insanity, but it's not working. He's  _ feeling  _ too fucking much and he's frustrated. “Jens... Jens,” he chants, “I need...I need…” he can't even finish the words because he doesn't know  _ what the fuck _ he needs.

Jensen slows down, sensing Misha falling apart in a way he doesn't like, and leans over him. He covers Misha's fists with his hands, gripping just as tight, and kisses his shoulder. “It's okay,” he whispers.

_ “No,”  _ Misha turns his head away from the incorrigible younger man, and huffs. “The only thing...I wanna feel,” he pants, “is your cock, Jensen.”

“Mish,” Jensen pleads, kissing his way across the man's shoulders to where he's turned his face, “lemme take care of you.”

“Fuck you,” Misha growls, his face crumpling as Jensen nips at his jaw, “I don't  _ need _ you to take care of me!”

_ You know what, fuck that _ , Jensen thinks. He fucking knows better, whether  _ Misha _ does or not. He sits back on his haunches, pulling completely out of Misha - much to the blue-eyed man's utter dismay - and squeezes his lids shut, chest heaving with pain and worry for the man he loves.

“What… what the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” Misha pleads, his tone admonishing.

“Turn over,” Jensen orders.

“What? Jensen, just come on--”

“I  _ said _ , turn the fuck over.” He's not messing around with this bullshit anymore, and that's made crystal clear in the edge of his voice.

Misha sighs and does what he asks. As soon as he's on his back, Jensen slides his arms under Misha's knees, and slams back into him.

_ “Fuck!”  _ Misha cries, furrowing his brow and screwing his eyes shut.

Jensen leans over him as he starts to thrust again, painfully, methodically slow. “Misha look at me,” he orders. Blue eyes obey, lids open wide with surprise, self-doubt and questions; pupils blown wide with lust. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I need you to be, too. Present… with me. Understand?”

Misha's eyes well up traitorously. He closes them to keep the tears at bay, and shakes his head. “Please... don't.”

Jensen leans down to kiss his forehead, dragging his lips down to his cheek, over to his ear. He pulls his arms out from under Misha's knees, allowing long, muscular legs to wrap around his waist, and frames the stunning man's head with his forearms. “Let me,” he whispers.

Misha nods, unable to say another word without breaking down because  _ this asshole knows him too well, and he fucking loves him so much for it. _ He wraps his arms around him, holding on for dear life, digging his heels into Jensen's back.

Jensen moves a little quicker now, not to fast, but not too slow. It's perfect. It's everything, and Misha's feeling it throughout his entire being. They push and pull like the flow of the ocean; waves crashing, fading back only to crash again and again. Only the sound of whispered begs and breaths washing over one another can be heard as each man careens closer and closer to that proverbial cliff; the movements between them causing just enough pressure, just enough friction on Misha's cock to send fire licking through his body unrelentingly.

“Jens,” Misha pants, his voice barely audible, “Jens... _ Jens, I'm--”  _ a tear escapes his eye and Jensen kisses it away.

“Shh, baby, I got you,” he coos, his voice like velvet. “I got you, Mish. Let it go.”

It only takes one more solid thrust grazing Misha's prostate for his entire body to seize. His fingers dig into Jensen's shoulders, back arches off the bed as he starts to cry out. Jensen stifles the cries with his mouth, tongue darting in as he tumbles over the edge shortly after. He moans, deep and guttural, thrusts stuttering to a stop as he spills and pulses into Misha.

They lay like that for a few moments, body spent, sticky heat and sweat shared between the two. Finally, Jensen pulls out, shifting his hips to the side of Misha's body, right leg bent over the other man's left. He puts his head on Misha's chest, listening as his heart beat slows to normal, and he smiles to himself.

“I'm sorry,” Misha says suddenly, fingers absently stroking up and down Jensen's back.

The younger man pulls back to stare down at his boyfriend. “For what?”

“For being a grade A prick,” Misha sighs.

“Uh-uh,” he shakes his head, “don't start that shit again.”

Misha smiles contentedly and chuckles. “Okay, fine, asshole, how about this?” Jensen raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to go on. “Thank you... for showing me what I needed when I... thought I knew but I didn't.”

Jensen's heart stutters for a second, but he lays his head back on Misha's chest and shrugs. “You always do it for me.”

“I dunno what I'd do without you,” Misha muses aloud, child-like fear riddling his tone.

Jensen pops his head back up to scowl at the man. “How 'bout you shut up now, Mish. You're not ever gonna have to find out, capisce?”

Misha smiles. “Okay, Jackles. I love you, insufferable  _ stronzo.” _

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Right back atcha, babe. Also,  _ vaffanculo.” _

Misha laughs, loud and hearty. “I'm so proud you learned a new phrase. How long ya been sitting on that one?”

“A while. Jared taught me,” he grins.

Misha sighs. “He's a good friend. Hey…” he disorientedly looks around the room. “What time is it?”

Jensen props himself up and squints at the clock. “Shit,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Uhm, y'know how I said we had plenty of time?” Misha nods in response. “Welp, we're gonna be  _ pretty _ late for dinner.”

Misha rolls his eyes, laughing to himself. “Of course we are,” he deadpans.

***

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> stronzo - "asshole" in Italian  
> vaffanculo - "fuck off/fuck you" in Italian   
> You're welcome ;-P


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